I’ve got to get this off my chest. It’s not that I’m trying to complain — I just need someone to listen and understand. My family knows nothing of this; my children and grandchildren are convinced that my husband and I have a strong, ideal marriage. I’ve never had friends I could trust with something like this — I’ve always been afraid of gossip and the judgmental chatter, and frankly, I’m too tired to explain or defend myself anymore.
James and I have been married for over thirty years. We met back in 1989 — I was 22, he was 25. We were young, hopeful dreamers. He seemed so serious, reliable, and proper to me — someone who could protect and support me, someone I could build a life with. We married swiftly, even though my parents weren’t thrilled with the idea. But I insisted. I loved him.
The early years were tough. The tumultuous nineties, two kids, not enough money. Yet, we persevered. By the early 2000s, things seemed to have settled — work, stability, our own home. We weren’t living in luxury, but we had all we needed, and the kids were well-dressed and cared for.
Now, we have three grown children: two daughters with families of their own, who have blessed us with grandchildren. Our youngest son isn’t married yet but lives separately. James and I are on our own in our flat, where we should be enjoying peace, quiet, and a second youth. But everything came crashing down a few months ago.
I noticed changes in James. He became irritable, withdrawn. He was silent at dinner, absorbed in work, uninterested in me or the grandchildren. I suspected there might be someone else. Or maybe he was facing some financial difficulties, debts, loans — after all, men don’t always own up to their problems. But the truth was far worse than any affair.
James filed for divorce.
When I asked him why, he looked at me coldly and said, “I never loved you. I married you out of spite. The woman I loved married someone wealthy, and I couldn’t handle it, so I proposed to you. Then she moved abroad with her husband, and I resigned myself. But she passed away recently, and I realized I’ve been living a life that wasn’t my own.”
I was stunned. He spoke as if we were discussing the weather — without a trace of regret or empathy. I simply sat there, listening, with one thought pounding in my mind: “So, it was all a lie? All those years — just an act?”
He confessed he’d kept in touch with her even after our wedding. Later, they parted ways when she went to Europe. We had children, and he decided it was “for the best,” because I was a “good mother and a dependable wife.” And now, with her gone, he wants to “live for himself” and insists on selling our flat to buy separate ones.
How am I supposed to react to that?
All my life, I thought we were simply different. That he wasn’t affectionate — well, that happens. That he didn’t say “I love you” — men aren’t typically sentimental. I justified all this for myself. But now I understand — it wasn’t just his nature. It was indifference. I was just there, like a piece of furniture, a habit. We shared the mundane but not the soul.
I’m 56 now. I feel as though I’ve been betrayed at my most vulnerable. When you’re worn out, having given everything: youth, health, years… And in return, a cold “I never loved you.”
What hurts most isn’t for myself but for the woman I might have been if I’d known the truth sooner. If I hadn’t lived with someone who didn’t care. If I hadn’t carried his children, waited for him at night, cooked his favorite meals. And he just tolerated it. Just lived alongside, because it was easier. He had his reasons — “revenge,” “resignation,” “convenience.” But does that justify anything?
I’m at a loss for how to live now. It feels like my life was an illusion. That nothing was real. That love doesn’t guarantee anything. That you can be a good, faithful, reliable, loving wife, and yet still end up unwanted.
To those women who’ve gone through similar experiences, how did you cope? How do you let go? How do you start breathing again? I’m not young anymore. I just long for a bit of peace. Some respect. A little warmth — not from him, no. From the world. From myself.
I’m tired of being strong. But, apparently, I’ll have to be.
